I see eyes all the time. Not really mine all that much, but I see the eyes of Sonic, dead, two shining lumps of green coal, and they stare at me from the window of my room, or sometimes from a mirror on the wall. Also, I see a small flicker of movement, accompanied by the two pinpoints standing out in the darkness. Like eyes, and they’re watching me. And it doesn’t end there. Oh no. Of course not. They won’t let me off so easily. They have Amy crying from within the walls, and she’s in pain. Pleading, begging pain, just like I remember her, before she wasn’t able to speak anymore. Sometimes the house creaks, or the door cracks open and I can see the two lights with Amy screaming in the background, barely above a whisper. At night, at this time of year, the house gets really cold and the nights get really dark. This is the time where I can hear them the most, because, well, to be honest, they like this time the best. It’s poetic irony, really, and if I wasn’t where I am, I’d think it was funny. I’d laugh. Honestly. But I don’t. Knuckles does all the laughing for me. That’s right. He’s here too. He started about two weeks ago, bellowing, laughing, scraping his sharp fists across my walls. Earlier on I’d wake up to find mere scratches, deep and scornful, like maybe a servant did it and didn’t tell me out of fear of getting fired. It was nothing to me, really. They would have had nothing to worry about. Then I’d get less and less sleep, from the eyes, the screaming, and the laughing. Soon, it got to be where I’d just cower in my covers, watching, listening. Praying. Even though I don’t deserve to. Anyway, like I said, when the daylight gradually, oh so very gradually, lifted the darkness, giant words would be scraped into the wallpaper, towing over me, right in my bedroom, where I didn‘t hear any servant come in and make them. Revealing. Dwarfing me. But, alas, I am getting ahead of myself. This, of course, all started about a month ago. My former girlfriend, former fiancé, former lover leaves the house in a very heated scuffle with me. I didn’t hit her, technically, but she had a giant bruise on the side of her face from when I pushed her into the fireplace. Her head ramming into the stone in the back, it had knocked her dazed for the precious second where I chose to lock her inside, the iron doors closing shut. Now, architects aren’t idiots anymore. They think nowadays, so every fireplace like mine, in every snobby, wealthy, rich piece of shit’s house, they’re equipped with a handle on the inside, in case a snot nosed brat accidentally locks himself inside and the parents are too busy playing golf or yodeling or whatever the fuck they’re doing, to hear him. If you’re even five feet away from the hearth then even the loudest shouts can barely be heard. The handle opens the doors from the inside. No one should complain, and if they do, it’s cause for concern. So, to cover the handle problem, on my own, I take the fireplace poker from the very handy rack off to the side, and I shove it into the handles. My hands grip around the edges and I grit my teeth, bending as hard as I can, forming a loop around the two bars, the metal squeaking. Very encouraging. It’s around here, Elizabeth, my former everything, starts searching for the handle. And I could only grin. My left hand covered in soot, my face a mask of pure enjoyment, I started to caress the iron doors as though they were her face. And I tell her, softly, so she probably couldn’t hear me over her own shouts or the thick prison, “Shhh . . .  Shhhh . . . . .” I think back to a time in my life where everything wasn’t this simple, this great, this . . . Fuck. Sonic, Knuckles, and Amy. They all still used to be here, alive and well, but back then, everyone took them for granted. The type of ignorance that only lasts for so long. For say, the span of a lifetime, or a childhood, or even a decade. No one who ever met us thought that we’d die one day. No, no, no, we’d  outlive everyone. We’d be here until even the planet decided to stop spinning and the sun to stop burning. They’d raise their children to respect us, as if we’d be holding their hands their entire lives. That’s how it would be for us. We’d get older. They’d get older. We’d start doing all of the things that these people had done themselves, and they’d hate us for it. Ignorance kept them from hating themselves. Our decline from fame could be felt, oh yes it could, and it hurt. “Jumping the shark,” if that term can be carried over to our lives. We should have coined something like that . . . I would have to say, that we aged rather gracefully, and started to step away from the spotlight, doing good deeds less often. We were moving on, but then . . . then, something . . . happened . . . I’m sorry for this, actually, because I have nowhere to start. The condition I’m in, the predicament, prevents me from thinking clearly. It seems I can talk about what I want to remember, and now, my first childhood memory is surfacing . . . Dad. Big, lovable, stupid Dad. My first memory, and also my first bad memory. It’s like having your first dream a nightmare, or your first sexual encounter a rape. Dad. With his shining white eyes. His hands always clenched in big, meaty fists. Those tight lips of his, showing no emotion. There is no mother. I don’t ever remember having one. Although, I do have a couple of theories as to where she went, I don’t mind telling you. Take a wild guess. Dad. With his body obscured by shadow, the shadow of the huge oak tree. Dad. With his booming, accusing voice. Dad. Father. He blamed me. I can tell the way I remember that look; I was so little that I must have been so low to the floor or ground or wherever I was. The lights were so bright that he appeared like black paint, covered from head to toe. But his eyes . . . they still shone brightly. They hung with hatred, aimed right at me. He looked so angry. Whatever happened to Mom, only Dad knows. And he’s . . . . . Well, anyway. Lost it again. This time, I’m with my girlfriend, my fiancé, my lover. Elizabeth. Pretty, pretty Elizabeth. Full of pep, full of attitude, full of shining teeth and golden blonde hair. She always smelled like oranges. She felt so soft at my fingertips, but that’s none of your fucking business. The point is, she was mine, and I loved her. I truly did. And I believe that she loved me as well. Throughout the dark times, she had stuck to me like industrial glue. Since we met, we’ve been in each other’s sight. At least once a day, I made sure of it. Our relationship never got boring, or dull, or tedious, or awkward. I had made certain of that as well. The money never exhausted, always coming in, there were dinners, there were zoos, there were cruises, there were resorts, there were second honeymoons and proposals and rings and candy and roses and candles and cards and stuffed toys and string quartets and parties and dances and nights of raw passion. There were tears of joy, happiness, appreciation. There were family functions, special occasions, expeditions, pets, houses, apartments, mansions, beds, kitchens, the works. There was the first kiss, the oral sex, the anal, the missionary, the lotus, there was upside down, from behind, in the tub, in chocolate. Let the good times roll and never stop, for five long years. I cheated on her five times, she on me once, but we didn’t mind. We understood each other. Variety keeps it fresh. After the experience, we’re stronger than ever. We love each other even more. Both of our parents loved the other side. Our snobby, well-to-do friends loved us together. The sex was amazing. The conversation admissible. Five long years. One year before the “jumping of the shark.” The peak, and she joined me. I saved her life and she was after me from then on, the prospect of near-death being the perfect reason to enjoy her life, and the best way to do so was to break a shy, innocent little shit like me. No illusions, I know she came on because of the money, and the fame, and the curiosity. She and every other 14 year old girl had questions they wanted to know about me. Even though she was about four years older, I let her have me. Even that young I could recognize potential when I saw it. Elizabeth became my shadow, along every sideline game that starred me, Sonic, Amy, and Knuckles. She broke me in, and I broke her. We shared secrets, we taught each other tricks. After the deaths and the great decline, I needed her more than ever. I may be an evil bastard but I still have feelings. In short, we blossomed. And she’s still locked in the fireplace, I can hear her struggle, barely hear her shout:  “The door’s stuck!! Tails?! The door is stuck!!” Shh. Shh. “Get me out of here!!!” She’s claustrophobic. I learned years ago that she has an undeniable hatred for being alone in the dark. In our bed, there was always some part of her touching me. Her foot, her ass, her back, her hand. She told me that she’s always slept with a night light. Shhh. Shhh. Be calm. Be silent. She started pounding on the door, hard. The bent poker was wrapped so tight that the door only opened a couple of inches, not even enough to let light in. Her shouts paused, as though she’s thinking about something. Horrible realization. I stood away and watched, listened. The kettle in the kitchen a flight downstairs was going off and I could still hear her breathing. Very calmly and ever so clearly, she says, “Miles . . . let me out of here.” I only smile. “Miles? I know you’re there.” She’s scared. She’s so fucking scared, and her attempts to hide her fright are laughable. She doesn’t know that I’m here. That’s what’s making her panic. Either I’m standing here toying with her or I’ve left her there to decay in the dark. Either she’s alone or she may as well be. “Miles . . ?” I take a step back. She starts to kick with every mention of my name. “Miles?” Pound. “Miles!?” Pound. “MILES!!!!” Pound, pound, pound. That moment, right there . . . The purest form of anything I can ever hope to do. The harmonious blend of mystery and terror. From my perspective I can sit comfortably and laugh at her misery, but from her end, it’s probably a nightmare. It’s dark, it’s hard to breathe, and worst of all, it’s quiet. She can’t her anything besides herself. I know her so well that I can savor the thoughts that run through her head. She wonders if death is like being in a dark room by yourself, and time doesn’t exist. Time dies along with you, so it’s eternity in a dark room listening to your own breathing echo. You feel your own panic. The air tickles and taunts. And sometimes, you see a shape . . . a shape. This familiar shape off in the dark, far away, and you reach out towards it, watching it grow . . . No. No nonononononono NO!! Fuck this! Next I’m driving along this lonely desert highway, having just learned how to drive. Elizabeth’s head is in my lap, and it feels so good that my eyes are rolling into my head and FUCK YOU I am not ashamed of this. New topic. Okay. The house. The mansion. Inheritance is the best way to save money. And since I get all of my money from that anyway, it’s not like I have to do algebra. Or even learn it. I can do whatever I want, really, since the only things worth doing cost an arm and a leg. Back to the house, I call it a parting gift from Sonic. He called it his bachelor pad. His nest egg. He didn’t even live in it. He kept it closed off, kept it maintained for years, waiting until the perfect someone in his life came along, so he could pretend that it was all for her. That this house was special because she was special. He would lie to her to strengthen their relationship. So, nothing is perfect. There is a lie behind a flawless everything. Sonic said that he had to lie to make the world a better place. I say it’s bullshit, even if I did tell Elizabeth that the house was for her. This house has seven stories. This house has its own library. This house has more rooms than I will even need, more rooms than we can fill children with. The fireplace is as big as a closet, and rises higher than the floors, topping out ten feet above the roof. This house has yards that could be parks or golf courses. There are ponds. There is fruit cellar and a wine cellar. A library, a LIBRARY, for fuck’s sake! The kitchen alone is bigger than the old apartment building Sonic and I used to live in. This was my dream for the bulk of my life, until it became . . . well, you know how these things go. Maybe you’ve even heard this story before. It’s the one where this troupe of traveling circus freaks that the media disguised as “Heroes” travels around the world doing deeds that no one else will do, most likely out of sheer laziness. They’re soon taken for granted, because the world is so cruel in their search for the newest thing. Everyone slowly becomes the same person, and these freaks of man-made nature watch all of it die. They still do their job, solving cases in two hours, dealing with garden variety scum. Work decreases. One by one the members come to grips with their station in life and resolve to move on. But. Then. Bam.  It happens. Society becomes so predictable that it could be mapped like a typhoon or a solar flare. Murders turn into natural disasters. Suddenly, something new pops up, and these freaks give their profession one last shot to stop it. And let’s just remember what happened to them all because of it. Yes, you’ve heard that one, I know. You must have. The funerals were televised to bored audiences, the interview of the last survivor edited to look like a different person entirely. No? You’re sure? Huh. Odd. Maybe this story was manipulated through years of telling, each observer giving an extra spin. I guess it really isn’t the same story anymore. I guess whatever is left of the original is only alive in one person. Off track, off track. I want to talk more about Mr. Jackson, and his famous book. Infamous, rather, the way all eventually become. A melancholy, depressed, normal individual. “Remember him? Remember when he used to actually help the world?” I still do. Masses change faster than individuals. Mr. Jackson just tried to break free of the collective of which you had all become one with. He was the only true individual. He created a new path for others to follow, which in a way is the same thing as the first. But he wasn’t about that. He tried to teach free thinking. A paradox of his own kind. He taught that it was all about intentions, that the mind was more powerful than any hurricane. He started out as a professor, moved to magic shows, lived finally in villainy. Mr. Jackson demonstrated the power he held, purely of his own doing. The problem is that he became every other bad guy in the world: cocky. He bragged about this book . . . And then he was ours. The Sonic Team’s final job before the deaths. Our retirement. Mr. Jackson’s burning red eyes remind me of a dream I’ve been having recently. It seems so familiar, too, like they’re images from my life or maybe I’ve had this dream before. In either case, they’re been getting longer and longer, and it’s been harder and harder to get out of it. To wake myself up. Even when I realize that it’s a dream, what seems like this suffocating blanket falls over me and I don’t snap out of it. Realization that it’s all a lie should crack the contours, should burn the glue, should dissolve the framework, but it doesn’t. The walls don’t collapse. The tape doesn’t decay. The dream goes on, even when I know I can escape. Something forces it to go on . . . . This baby just won’t stop crying. Just like the writing on my walls don’t disappear. The servants all abandoned